


I Was a Prisoner on a Broadway Chorus Line

by MrProphet



Category: Sam & Max
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 00:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrProphet/pseuds/MrProphet





	I Was a Prisoner on a Broadway Chorus Line

It was a quiet afternoon in New York, with the sultry peace of an East Coast summer’s day broken only by the roar of the traffic, the screams of ordinary, decent civilians becoming victims of senseless crime and the steady bang, bang, bang of discharging firearms as the Freelance Police, fearless protectors of the innocent and quick to duck, went about their ostensibly lawful business.

“Which way did he go?” Sam asked as they reach the end of an alleyway.

“Look, Sam!” Max piped up cheerily. “An open manhole cover. Looks like the little sneak went down the sewers.”

“Then down we go after him,” Sam said. “I wish I’d brought my rubber waders and a flashlight.”

“I wish I’d brought one of those shotguns with a flashlight on top,” Max replied.

“Never mind that now, Max! I can hear more than one of them down there. Get ready for a battle royale of epic proportions, more spectacular, thrilling and violent than any yet committed to print!”

*

Some hours later, Sam and Max were relaxing over a cup of hot joe in their favourite Elvis-themed coffee house and Chinese takeaway, Chung King Espresso.

“You okay little buddy?” Sam asked.

“It was horrible,” Max replied in a haunted tone. “I can still feel the burning of the stomach acids.”

The barista came over to the bar. “Telephone call for Sammy Macs!” he called. “Is there a Sammy Macs here?”

“Close enough, buddy,” Sam replied. He took the phone. “Freelance Police, we deliver?” He listened for a moment. “You don’t say,” he said and then listened again. “You don’t say,” he said again. “You  _don’t_  say!” He hung up the telephone.

“Who was it?” Max asked.

“It was the commissioner calling to tell us there’s trouble in Syria-Palestine circa AD34. We’ve got to travel back in time and sort it out.”

“Will we get paid for this assignment?” Max asked.

“He didn’t say.”

Max frowned. “Is circa a real word, Sam?”

*

“So, here we are in Syria-Palestine circa AD34!” Sam declared delightedly.

“Drawn only after painstaking research, no doubt.”

“Geez, Max; this is a text only adventure. There are no pictures.”

“Oh yeah; I forgot. We’d better offer some kind of gratuitous and clunky visual description of this land of sand, sun and… palm trees and more sand and… Hey Sam!”

“Yes little buddy?”

“This place is kind of boring, isn’t it? What is it we have to do here? I wanna get home in time for Days of Our Lives.”

“Don’t worry your fuzzy little head about it, Max. There won’t be any soap operas for almost two thousand years.”

“Yeah, but I need to microwave a pack of popcorn and some roaches before it starts.”

“Never mind that now!” Sam said, pointing along the road. “Look! A procession of Roman soldiers coming from that big city and heading for that hill covered in trees with two branches each and no leaves.”

“Look at them hitting those poor guys with whips!” Max huffed in outrage. “As though it wasn’t hard enough dragging those trees.”

“This must be some crazy Roman tree planting scheme to make these deserts bloom,” Sam decided.

“Those trees look awfully skinny and those guys look awfully tired. I don’t think this environmental scheme is ethically sound.”

“You’re right, Max. We should teach these Roman legionaries to respect human life!”

“And how should we do that?” Max asked. “Should we riddle their eagle banner with bullets and then pummel, maim and mutilate them until they see that violence solves nothing?”

“I can’t think of a reason not to, little buddy,” Sam agreed.

*

With the Romans pummelled and the prisoners free, Sam and Max returned to their office in triumph.

“Another adventure wrapped up in our own inimitable style,” Max declared, “which is an ironic statement when one considers the artistic context of this piece.”

“You crack me up, little buddy. Still, I can’t help but feel that we may have somehow inadvertently sent the course of history skewing off at some awful tangent.”

He shook his head, turned away from the rabbit head decorating the stained glass window opposite and climbed the stairs to the office.


End file.
